


Strange Beginnings

by LetThereBeDestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Idiots, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Val fic kinda, Valentine's Day, idk how that works out, this might or might not be the same therapist-Donna from my Planets fic, young adults au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29462937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetThereBeDestiel/pseuds/LetThereBeDestiel
Summary: AU: "Anyone down to take couples counseling and see at what point the therapist realizes we don't even know each other?", or: idiots to lovers
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 69





	Strange Beginnings

1

“I’m starting to see why you’re here.”

Dr. Hanscum’s expression was patient with a tint of hungry, but her tone said _stop arguing, you irritating fucks._

“So you see he's being completely unreasonable,” Cas said, and Dean rolled his eyes for absolutely no reason but dramatic effect.

“Literally the last thing I said,” he cut in, “Was ‘You don’t have to argue with me about everything’.” He turned to the therapist. “How can that be unreasonable?”

“With difficulty, but somehow, you make it work,” Cas answered, with the air of being pleased with himself. Dean's attention slipped from the conversation in favor of taking a moment to appreciate how good this guy was at spontaneous bullshitting. He had to suggest improv classes when they got out of here.

What led Dr. Hanscum to make her statement was a – completely reasonable, and easy to answer, if you weren’t two idiots – simple question about how they’d met.

 _We met on a bench_ was Cas’ answer, which was stupid, if true.

 _Work,_ Dean corrected, and turned to his couple’s therapy partner... person. _Work is more believable._

 _But bench is where we actually met,_ Cas retorted.

_Who meets on a bench?_

_Us. We did._

_Actually, we met_ by _a bench._

_Actually, we-_

_You don’t have to argue with me about everything._

At that point, Dr. Hanscum inserted her “I’m starting to” comment.

The actual circumstances didn't have much more to them than it seemed. They had met on a bench, and now they were here. That was, in the most extensive way of telling the story, pretty much it.

2

Earlier that day, Dean was sitting on a bench.

It wasn’t quite as rational as it sounded. He was sitting on a bench, outside a couple’s therapist’s office he’d never been to, harassing strangers. Whenever one passed – on the occasion that they were twenty five to thirty five years old and wearing pants – he stood up and explained, quite rationally, he thought (Castiel did not agree), his situation, then his request, then he watched as they walked away in horror.

That was, until Cas came along, and listened to his situation, and listened to his request, and said,

“Huh?”

“I’m serious,” Dean said, and mentally hit his head at how desperate he sounded as he was saying it.

“I don’t... believe you.” Cas looked him over, as if searching for evidence that he was a weirdo.

“I just need someone to come with me to this meeting.”

“This... couple’s meeting.”

“Couple’s counselling,” said Dean.

“Because you had a girlfriend?” Cas seemed profoundly confused, and he felt profoundly confused, because he must have gotten this story wrong, otherwise the story was... really weird.

“Because I used to have a girlfriend,” Dean said. “And she was the one to schedule this meeting, and if I cancel, I’m scared this therapist person is gonna give her a call to double check with her.”

“This makes no sense.”

“Nonetheless,” Dean said, “It’s the sitch.”

There was a couple-minutes interlude while Cas ascertained (quite thoroughly) (unnecessarily so, to Dean’s opinion) that this information was legit. There really was a couple’s therapist’s office in a building right by them. Dean really had a recently-ex girlfriend (he showed pictures). Dean was mentally sound (if you didn’t count aerophobia and an obsession with He-Man).

“Isn’t she going to notice I’m... not a woman?” Cas asked then.

“I’m pretty sure they just texted.”

“How trustworthy is your ‘pretty sure’?”

“I'd say it's pretty trustworthy,” Dean grinned. “So... you’ll do it?”

Cas’ eyes narrowed slowly into a squint. He’d seen every person Dean had asked before him walk away quickly as if he were asking for something completely absurd. Which he absolutely was.

But he had nothing better to do this evening. And, to be completely honest, what made him seriously consider this was the fact that if he walked away, the chances this man would find anyone else to help him were zero, if he was being optimistic, and zero-plus-getting-arrested-for-disturbing-the-neighborhood if he was being realistic.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“It’ll just be an hour.” Dean put on his best pleading voice. “And then you can go back to... whatever you were on your way to do.”

Cas didn’t particularly want to say _going to my empty apartment and watering my seventeen plants_ , so he said nothing.

“Her name’s Cassie,” Dean prompted. “So we can just pretend your name is Cas.”

In response to that, he got a tentatively suspicious look.

“Do you... know me? have we met before?”

This, to Dean, seemed like an illogical response. (To Cas it seemed that out of the two of them, he was the one being perfectly logical.)

“If I knew you,” Dean said in that “I’m being very patient right now but I’m secretly thinking about ways to accidentally step on you” tone, “I would be avoiding eye contact and letting you pass by, then spending the rest of my evening anxious about whether you saw me harassing strangers.” He held his hands palms-up. “Why did you ask that?”

“That’s my name,” Cas said, somehow sounding even more suspicious after Dean’s clearly calming anxious-harassing-why-did-you speech.

“Good for you.” Dean checked his phone. “I have four minutes, man. Please. This is my last chance to save face here.”

Cas’ shoulders pushed backwards into a relaxed pose. An insulting-a-stranger pose. “Talking to strangers on the street,” he started, “Trying to convince them to come with you to an intimate meeting even people who know each other dread going to, and lie their way through it, for free? You're saving face alright.”

“It won't be for free,” Dean rushed, and then paused, because he had not thought this statement through. “I'll give you... I'll give you this, uh...” He dug into his pocket and drew up, well, nothing. “This piece of lint,” he finished with more confidence than he had to show for.

Cas looked at the lint skeptically.

He kept searching.

“I'll give you this couple's waffle breakfast coupon, eh?” He pulled a small card out of his wallet. “It expires next week, and I won't be needing it, anyway, so...”

He looked at Cas hopefully. Cas looked at the coupon. The coupon looked at Dean’s palm (it was facing down).

“I’ll take it.”

3

“I don’t think Dean is being unreasonable,” Dr. Hanscum offered now.

“Thank you,” Dean said, in that tone you use when your therapist agrees with you and not with your fake partner.

“I think he just wants to be listened to,” she went on. “When was the last time someone listened to you, Dean? Really listened? Who hurt you?”

“Wait. What?” He did a one-eighty on that thanks. “No one hurt me. I’m perfectly listenous. People listen to me all the time.”

“Now you’re overcompensating by using exaggerated confidence. What are you really feeling, Dean?”

“I’m feeling annoyed,” he countered. “That I’m put on the spot. Why don’t you put him on the spot for a moment, huh?”

“I would love to be put on the spot,” Cas provided.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Let me suggest something.” Dr. Hanscum paused for a moment, possibly asking God to give her strength, or envisioning her next cup of coffee. “Why don’t you tell me what you guys are like as a couple when you’re alone.”

The amount of nervous sweating in the room quadrupled in a second.

“Um,” Dean started eloquently. “Well.”

“You ask a difficult question,” Cas offered some of his own.

Dr. Hanscum raised an eyebrow. “It’s only difficult if you don’t know the answer.”

“That applies to all questions,” Cas said decisively.

This was going well.

Before she could put her finger on what was in the air (bullshit) which she sensed but, at this point, didn’t seem to recognize, Dean opened his mouth and sat there helplessly as things came out of it.

“We have a lot to talk about,” he blurted out. “We’re both interested in-” he paused for half a second- “Waffles?”

Cas nodded slightly.

“Waffles. Yeah. And, um, discounts in waffle restaurants.”

“And lint,” Cas added helpfully.

“Lint,” Dean said.

“I’m not completely sure that’s what I asked.” The Dr. seemed confused enough to, perhaps, not be completely sure it wasn't what she asked, either. “Would you say you sometimes feel uncomfortable around each other?”

“Fairly uncomfortable,” said Cas, nodding.

Dr. Hanscum opened her mouth, but before she could say something, Dean jumped in on the opportunity to say something stupid.

“Well, we don’t know each other that well yet.”

Cas coughed into his fist. Dr. Hanscum’s eyes shifted between them listeningly.

“How long have you been together?”

“Two hours, ish?”

“Months,” Dean amended quickly. “Two months. Ish.”

If Dr. Hanscum was surprised by that, she was definitely showing it, and quite rudely, too. You give a therapist a hundred dollars to be able to bullshit to her face for an hour and she’s surprised when your partner turns out to be a shitty liar. Well, maybe this was really more on Cas. Fantastic bullshitter, but shitty liar. 

“And why did you feel the need to seek counselling after such a short period of time?”

Silence.

Silence, and more silence, while they each grasped for anything at all to say.

“Um...” Cas let out. “I really, really didn’t want to spend Valentine’s Day alone.”

“That’s hardly a reason to maintain a relationship.”

Cas gave a small shrug. “‘So lonely it’s pathetic’ is just the kind of people we are.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dean interjected. Cas gave him a look so cold it could re-freeze ice. He didn’t accidentally bring like, an actual assassin with him into a small room with one exit, did he?

“Are you sure you want to start a _whose life is sadder_ contest half an hour after you admitted to spending your Friday nights eating hot Cheetos in bed with Batman pajamas on?”

Dean sent him the stink eye. “I said that in confidence.”

“You sure did say it with confidence.”

Dean sighed, somewhat dramatically, and turned to the Dr. “We know each other through a mutual friend,” he said in the calm voice of someone who had just spent four minutes multitasking between coming up with bulletproof bullshit and arguing with a therapist and a Cas. “She would be very disappointed if we didn’t give it a proper chance. It’s just, we seem to have a tolerance problem with each other in that, um...”

“We don’t.”

Within himself, Dean couldn’t deny there was something strangely liberating about this. Well – not the stressful lying to a mental health professional part. The Cas part. The part where they bickered and quarreled and complained and it all felt so weirdly natural, like water pouring out from a tiny room he’d been stuck in. Maybe he should bullshit with strangers more.

When he snuck a glance sideways and his eyes caught Cas’, this silent smile passed between them that made him feel like they were on the same page. The quarreling was for Dr. Hanscum’s sake. The complaining was for credibility’s sake. The bickering was because somehow, after spending less than a couple hours together, they clicked too well not to argue. Having a nice conversation with someone was easy. Falling into a natural argument was a harder thing to fabricate. Kicking each other in the ankle whenever one of you almost exposed your embarrassingly inconsequential sham felt like something they’d been doing for years and not, well, for the first time just now, in an office that had a framed picture of a donut.

He almost wished he could be friends with this random guy who took his waffle coupon.

“Now.” Dr. Hanscum rested her chin on her fist. “This issue you talk about isn’t necessarily as big as you guys believe it to be. I mean,” She counted on her fingers, starting from the pinkie. “You communicate openly. You’re comfortable with honesty. You even finish each other’s sentences.”

“So,” Dean made a show of counting on his fingers as well. “Insulting each other, assholes, and can’t finish a sentence without being interrupted.”

“See?” she leaned back with a smile, as if she was the one who won this round. Wait, was she? “It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“I think it’s safe to say we’ve got issues,” Dean insisted, for credibility’s sake. Beside him, Cas nodded, which would have been helpful, except it was kind of stepping on his point. Would’ve helped more if Cas yelled, or maybe threw a palm-sized plastic plant at him, but he didn’t know how to signal that with his eyes. “We're spending Valentine's Day in a therapist's office. If that's not rock bottom, I don't know what is.”

Dr. Hanscum's eyes drifted away. “Rock bottom would be going back to your empty apartment, drinking two whole bottles of five-dollar wine and falling asleep face down on your rug with a _M_ _aster_ _C_ _hef_ recording playing in the background.”

They stared at her with a stunned kind of slight terror. A terror her own face slowly started to mirror.

“...Or what you said.”

Dean shook his head and tried to erase that mental image from his mind. “The point is, uh...”

“We've been going out for two months,” Cas continued. Finished his sentence. Interrupted him. Whichever. “And we barely know anything about each other.”

“Could you be more specific?” asked Dr. Hanscum. “What do you not know about each other?”

Cas hesitated, and Dean jumped in. It was weird how you could feel like a team when you were playing a fake couple and there was incredible pressure on you to not expose your deception.

“I don't know his hobbies. I don't know what he eats for dinner.” Dean raised his arms and dropped them for dramatic effect. “I don't even know which spoon he likes to be.”

“I'm the big spoon,” Cas said.

“And have you ever made an effort to learn this kind of things about each other?”

“None whatsoever,” Dean said at the same time Cas said, “Does being here count?”

Dr. Hanscum raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like all you need to do is talk to each other, and listen. Communicate.”

They turned to look at each other. Cas looked lost. Weakly, Dean said, “No.”

“That’s not very constructive of you,” Cas pointed out.

“Oh, fu-”

“Why don’t you try to ask him a question?” Dr. Hanscum interrupted.

Dean huffed.

Okay.

He could... he could ask Cas something like what was the most comforting place for him when he was sad, or where was the weirdest place he took a dump, or why in cold hell did he agree to a stranger asking him to a couple’s counselling date on Valentine’s, and how was he doing such a good and simultaneously bad job at it. Things he actually wanted to know. Things he actually cared about. Especially the dump thing. He went for a therapist-appropriate question, instead.

“What’s your kryptonite?”

“What?”

“You know, kryptonite. Superman's greatest weakness or something. That thing that fucks him up." Now everyone in the room was looking at him judgmentally, and the rest of his sentences came out a little weak. "I’m not actually sure what it does. I don’t know that much about comic books.”

“Then why did you bring it up?” Cas asked.

“I just mean what’s your weakness.”

Cas gave it a few moments’ thought. “Is it something that hits you, or more like something you drink?”

“It could be something you drink,” Dean said, wondering, now, whether kryptonite _was_ something you drank. “Like poison.”

“In that case,” Cas scratched his chin in a way no one actually did unironically in real life. Somehow he made it work. “Warm milk.”

“I think we learned a lot from this exercise,” Dr. Hanscum said, in the manner of someone who did not think we learned a lot from this exercise.

“I tend to agree,” said Cas. “We learned that I, unlike some people, have self-respect.”

“Now, Cas, why would you say that?” The Dr. leaned her chin on her hand again, except this time she looked a few shades more exhausted.

“Because I don’t usually open a discussion about things I know nothing about.”

“Maybe,” she put in, “Dean was trying to impress you.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah.”

“He wasn’t doing a very good job, then.” It came out plain mean. Dean had to bite himself to keep from smiling. He turned to the therapist.

“So, the communication thing ain’t working.”

“Okay.” Dr. Hanscum spread her hands in a placating gesture. “Let’s start with a set goal. You mentioned you don’t know each other well enough. What _do_ you know about each other?”

They both fell silent again. And it should have been this moment where the quiet stretched an awkward amount, or he made a joke, or Cas was sarcastic, but instead, Dean found himself speaking.

“He’s nice,” he said, looking somewhere that wasn’t quite Dr. Hanscum and wasn’t quite Cas but was rather mostly rug. “He'll help you out without needing a reason, though he'll-”

“Well, the reason was waffles,” Cas interrupted, and Dean smiled in a way that might’ve been just a touch too self-satisfied.

“Be a dickhead about it,” he finished. “But his intentions are good. Even if he tries to hide it.”

Okay, you couldn’t really tell something like that about someone from just one hour spent together. But he took a shot based on limited data. And it made Cas’ eyes go soft in a way that suggested it meant more to him than he tried to let on.

Dr. Hanscum’s eyes shifted onto Cas. Cas eyed the rug determinedly, the same spot Dean had been looking at, and for some reason all Dean could think about was whether this counted as rug eye contact. He thought Cas might just leave it at that, which was fine, really, because there weren’t many good things to say about Dean even when you knew him well – Cassie could probably testify. But Cas still found something to say.

“He’s caring.” Eyes on the rug like it was a lifeboat getting away. Dean couldn’t blame him. This was embarrassing. “He pays attention to everything you say. And...” He glanced at Dean now, and there was that softness in his eyes again. “It seems like he just doesn't want to go through life alone.”

Shot based on limited data. Or maybe just an accurate description of most people in the world. It still felt special being said with that look in Cas’ eyes that gave the impression he was being so honest it was making him uncomfortable.

“What do you have to say to that, Dean?”

“I’d say it paints me as a bit of a loser,” he answered the Dr. “But isn’t it what we all want?”

“That, and hot Cheetos,” Cas said. Dean shot him a mean look, but when their eyes met, something was happening to Cas’ face that caught him by surprise. Something relaxed and off-guard that Dean didn’t recognize.

He was smiling. Just a bit.

4

“I’m-” Dean started, but when he looked over at Dr. Hanscum, she was checking her watch.

“Sorry,” she said. “Go on.”

“I... don’t know what I wanted."

“Just as well. Our time is over. Why don’t you think on it until next time?”

The three of them stood up and moved to the door.

“Eh.” Dean shifted uneasily. “I don’t think there will be a next time.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Things just aren’t really working out between us.”

“After you were trying so hard?” Dr. Hanscum looked surprisingly surprised, considering, well, they were both terrible liars, and their story was inconsistent. “Really?”

He kicked Cas in the shin.

“Yeah.”

“So we'll probably be breaking up and uh, not coming back,” Dean concluded.

“I think you’re doing just fine,” said Dr. Hanscum. “But it’s up to you.”

“We’ll see,” Cas said.

“No, we won’t.”

“We won’t see,” he corrected. Before they walked out, he turned to the therapist a last time. “Don't text me, because I... dropped my phone in the toilet, and they had to change my number.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

“I have margarine fingers.”

“Butter fingers,” Dean coughed.

“I have butter fingers.”

Outside, Dean leaned his head against the wall of the building. He could feel a headache coming. “Nice save, dude.” He glanced over at Cas. “I really owe you. Though we're probably never gonna meet again, so... thanks.”

“Yeah.” Cas shoved his hands into his pockets. "Unless..." He shuffled his feet. Looked at the pavement. Looked at Dean. “Unless you want to share a waffle? I mean, it is a _couple's_ breakfast coupon. And this past hour was the closest thing I've gotten to a date in about four months.”

Dean watched him, a little stunned. _Really?_ He almost said. _Cheeto guy? Anxious stranger harasser guy?_ “Breakfast hour ended, like, seven hours ago.”

Cas checked the coupon. “It says ‘served until 8 pm’.”

“Let's go.”

There was a shopping center twenty minutes away by foot. It was just cold enough for pocket-hands, but not too cold to get uncomfortable. 

“So,” Dean asked on the way. “Do you really like to be the big spoon?”

“Do you really have a complicated relationship with He-Man?”

“Do you really have self-respect?” Dean asked with a smile.

“It comes and goes.”

“Sleep with your socks on?”

“Do you really sleep in Batman pajamas?”

“Okay, I had that one coming.” They stopped at a traffic light, and he looked at Cas from the corner of his eye. It kind of felt like they’d been friends for a while. Maybe it was the anonymity of being strangers that made it so easy to be honest with each other, embarrassing pajamas, loserness and all. “Did you really not have a date in four months?”

Cas considered this. “I better tell you over breakfast. Otherwise you might just leave me and eat all the waffles yourself.”

“Sounds like a pretty good plan.” Dean said. “Maybe I'll do that anyway.”

“That’ll leave me with no compensation,” Cas argued. “You’ll have to give me your lint.”

And then they both worked to hold back a smile, and failed hard.

He had a feeling in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a while. He almost moved his hand to bump against Cas’, but changed his mind. The light turned green. They started walking. Cas’ hand bumped against his, and he could swear it was on purpose, but when he looked over, Cas was looking away innocently.

Dumbass. Dean bumped his hand back.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt is based on (aka directly taken from) a twitter post by @idealpiper. I spent MY valentine's day writing this shit until 3 am, but at least that's not as bad as passing out face down on the rug.


End file.
